Wrinkled 9-5er

His girlfriend is starting to hate him and he’s become largely immune to her passive-aggressive behaviour because he’s a shell of the man she thought he’d amount to. They’re spending 70% of their already taxed income on rent so they can live in reasonable proximity to the job he hates. Their prospects of owning a home align with their chances of winning the lottery. He spends 6+ hours a day planning his draft kings lineup and listening to Bitcoin podcasts because it acts as a source of hope and mental escapism from the dopamine-deprived corporate hellhole he spends most of his conscious life pretending to work for. He’s effectively entered the “privatized welfare” class of Canadians whereby he’s paid a shitty wage, with nearly 0 chance of upside in return for sitting at a desk for 37.5 hours a week and pretending to click buttons on a screen that matter. He’s given up, drowning in his own irrelevance- “there must be more” he murmurs to himself as he clambers into the revolving door with his unwashed, wrinkled corporate attire, the uninspiring symphony of monotonous grays and blues, which is like an elaborate camouflage designed for aspiring off